


Don't cry for yesterday

by Angelicasdean



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Bisexuality, Bittersweet Ending, Dialogue Light, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Estrangement, Fix-It of Sorts, Found Family, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Kinda, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Past Attempted Suicide, Protective Arthur Morgan, References to Depression, Regret, Revenge, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Tags May Change, arthur becomes a leader and he don't got no darn clue what to do, beware okay, convoluted plot, heavily inspired i mean, i guess, in some chapters at least, it's not a happy story, like some parts are straight up ripped from the game, plot heavy, super super sad im again warning you, very very inspired by tlou2, very very sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:21:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25577239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelicasdean/pseuds/Angelicasdean
Summary: Hey! warning for this fic, please be aware that very triggering topics/explicit explanation of Gory things (wounds and injuries) in the future. Authors note should have a warning to give you a heads up but if I forget something I'm so so sorry!! I'll do my best to keep mindful.That being said here's the warnings for this chapter:Mention of child death, description of dead bodies, death scenes, alluded to suicidal thoughts, mention of alcoholismokay so that's done, hey guys, welcome to a new fic, this one is very heavy as said in the tags. It's also a playoff of The Last of Us 2's plot, with all that revenge plot things. It also takes elements from rdr1 and rdr2's epilogue. It's heavily canon divergent (as you'll see, the first goddamn paragraph of the chapter) and it also deals with a lot of healing trauma, found family rejoicing, graphic injury and such. I don't know how long this will be, I have an outline set up, I have a plot, updates might be slow because I'm aiming for a certain vibe and feel.The pace will be fast up until a certain point, if it feels too fast though, if it feels rushed; please do leave a comment.alright that's all I have to say!!! enjoy the angst.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan & Van der Linde Gang, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	1. What's a boy to do?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! warning for this fic, please be aware that very triggering topics/explicit explanation of Gory things (wounds and injuries) in the future. Authors note should have a warning to give you a heads up but if I forget something I'm so so sorry!! I'll do my best to keep mindful.
> 
> That being said here's the warnings for this chapter: **Mention of child death, description of dead bodies, death scenes, alluded to suicidal thoughts, mention of alcoholism**
> 
> okay so that's done, hey guys, welcome to a new fic, this one is very heavy as said in the tags. It's also a playoff of The Last of Us 2's plot, with all that revenge plot things. It also takes elements from rdr1 and rdr2's epilogue. It's heavily canon divergent (as you'll see, the first goddamn paragraph of the chapter) and it also deals with a lot of healing trauma, found family rejoicing, graphic injury and such. I don't know how long this will be, I have an outline set up, I have a plot, updates might be slow because I'm aiming for a certain vibe and feel.
> 
> The pace will be fast up until a certain point, if it feels too fast though, if it feels rushed; please do leave a comment. 
> 
> alright that's all I have to say!!! enjoy the angst.

Life never went their way.

Arthur’s half convinced God is strictly against him, some code in heaven that doesn’t allow for peace, underlined twice so the angels never forget. Underlined _thrice _under his name, asking specifically to have him as miserable as they come. Making sure he watches all those he loves and cares for die, in front of his own two eyes, first his mother, then his father, Jenny and Davey, and now watching Hosea croak his final breath before a bullet lands straight in his head, and Dutch cries out for him, beaten bloody enough that he can’t even spit out the name.

It's a wordless gurgle, Dutch choking from the bullet he caught in the back, and Milton doesn’t have enough kindness in him to put him down like he did Hosea. And so there Arthur laid, a foot square on the middle his back, and arms pushing his head into the dirt, forced to look into Hosea’s void eyes and hear Dutch choke and die, slowly. No matter how hard he thrashed or screamed or promised death, they didn’t pay him any attention, too focused on their killings.

Ross didn’t even _bother_ with him—Arthur will never know why—turned to him with a satisfied glint in his eye when now both Hosea and Dutch were still. He looked like he was about to shoot him too, that would’ve been merciful, Arthur guesses, and there’s no mercy in the hearts of men such like them.

He, instead, brought down the butt of his rifle across Arthur’s temple, once, stunning him, then twice to knock him out.

It’s not until much, much later that he comes back around, loud commotion around him, people yelling, calling for names. An arm shaking his shoulder fiercely, he would’ve thought it was wolves smelling all the blood if it weren’t for the very human fingers digging into his shoulder.

“ _Please,_ ” a breathless voice begs, and Arthur recognizes it, opens his eyes very slowly. Head pounding like he drank an entire bar and then some, and vision filling with spots, but he opens his eyes nevertheless, and everything comes back to him.

Arthur can’t help but stare, really, he can’t. Hosea’s eyes are still fixed on him, head lolled to the side and a clear hole in his forehead bleeding, _still bleeding_. Arthur blinks, numb as he shifts to sit up, and the hand on his shoulders turn even more frantic.

He’s turned around, facing a very clearly distraught John Marston, eye’s wide and, dare he say _almost tearful_. There are others around too, Arthur can see when he cranes his neck. Javier, Bill, Charles, all crowding around him now that he’s decidedly not dead.

John doesn’t speak it, but Arthur can feel it, from the tight hold John had taken to his arm, other hand coming up to lift his head from the ground. Arthur doesn’t want to look into John’s eyes anymore, seeing the relief in them, or the worry. So instead he closes his eyes, stiffly moving so he’d sit up, feeling like the ground is inviting him to lay down and wait till death’s synth lands on him and swiftly takes him under.

He doesn’t speak, not that he think’s he can anyway; his throat is tight and dry, but he drags himself to the corpses of his father—and his mentor—and stares.

Arthur knows he probably shouldn’t, but again, he can’t help it. Maybe if he stared long enough, they’d come back and jib him about it, if he looked into Hosea’s eyes long enough, the faded color of his irises, he’d blink back. But they don’t, not when John joins him, or when Charles and Javier slowly, as carefully and respectful as possible carry their corpses to their horse.

“Pinkertons” Arthur mumbles, once John places a hand to get him to move, and John looks down to him, eyes slowly understanding, “they left me alive” he adds, hand coming up to touch the bruise on the side of his head.

“let’s go home,” John says quietly, and Arthur looks down to the dark stains of blood soaking into the soil.

_Home?_

\--

Arthur doesn’t know what to do, now that his head finally healed. He doesn’t know what to do, now that Dutch and Hosea have been respectfully laid under the ground, graves close to each other and headstones carved with care. Now that it’s been weeks, and the gang is still shambling on, held together by tight threads of grief and loss.

It hangs in the air just as densely as it fills everyone’s eyes, their gait, their words. The red air of Lemoyne, the heavy hotness of the weather doesn’t help. And Arthur feels like he’s about to suffocate on himself. Closes his eyes as he sits by the shore, thinking.

He knows grief, knows it too well almost, but he’d only made accompany with this type of heaviness once before. The anvil in his chest, where he locks every tear that threatens to spill or every anger ridden word he wants to shout at anyone close by.

 _They’re expecting him to lead_ , he can see it in their eyes, the way their gaze follows him whenever he steps out. When Grimshaw cleared out Dutch’s things, laid them deep into one of the wagons, where Davey, Jenny, Mac and Hosea’s stuff lay too. When Tilly came to him asking what they’re going to do, and Arthur could only tell her that…there is nothing to do. Not yet.

He can’t think, Arthur doesn’t know how they expect him to lead them, take care of them, he can barely take care of himself. He’s half sure he’d been dead or starved to death already if Charles wasn’t there, a steady, strong presence that gently swept over the camp and held them up. A silent Atlas that made sure they don’t starve, don’t fight, that they eat and sleep and are guarded.

Arthur wants to thank him, has done it a few times, but they’re always quiet mummers that Charles doesn’t respond to. Maybe he doesn’t hear them, doesn’t need them. He can see the tired lines of his face, the gentleness that never disappears, that so few people see and appreciate. Arthur watched Charles head out every day, never failing to come back with _something_.

While the rest of them fell down into stupor, Arthur watched Charles become their savior.

It’s that same quiet strength that had him slowly pick up himself, watching Charles’ tired face move around camp, cut their wood and fill their water and hunt for them. One man doing the task of ten people, and it isn’t fair.

It’s as the first breeze of fall passes by them that Arthur picks up Dutch’s map, lays it down on Dutch’s table, inside of Dutch’s tent. Arthur pointedly ignoring the faint smell of cigar that had stuck to the canvas, the years of use and the presence he feels as he stands, staring down at the big map almost angrily.

They can’t stay in Lemoyne anymore.

It’s unkind and the Braithewaits and Grey’s have heard about their true identities. And while nothing has happened yet, they can’t afford any more loss. Arthur stares at the map, blinking slowly between long stretches, eyes fixed on the Lannahechee river, where Dutch has scribbled their location, as well as some pointers of where jobs can possibly be. His eyes trail up to Colter, where Dutch had drawn two small crosses, _J_ under one and _D_ under another.

Arthur looks down, eyes falling to the middle of New Hanover, where they laid Dutch and Hosea to rest, overlooking an area where deer and rabbits frequent, and long, green fields span over hills and cliffs. A place that can carry both their souls.

Arthur picks up a pencil, drawing another two crosses.

An _H_ under one and a _D_ under the other.

He stands back, feeling the wind leave his lungs, and a familiar rush of dread creep up his neck, down his arms till he feels weak again.

\--

The night finds Arthur sitting on Dutch’s bed, Molly having sought refuge in the girl’s tent, sleeping on her own in the bed of the man she loved proving to hard. Especially with how everything seemed to hold a tether to him. Arthur understands, he thinks, it’s hard stepping out sometimes. There are days that pass where Arthur’s grief makes him quiet and somber, but functional enough that he can hang around John, share a cigarette and sit around the silent campfire; where no one speaks and most men drink.

Javier doesn’t play his guitar, Bill had stays drunk more often than not, Karen too. Sean is uncharacteristically quiet, playing on his string or harmonica at the edge of camp.

The only ones truly working are Pearson, cooking them food, Grimshaw, urging the girls with slightly more vigor than necessary to get off their ass and work, Sadie, who had taken to robbing stagecoaches on their behalf and sparsely killing O’driscolls when she finds them.

And Charles, of course, who looks more worn down as the days passed.

Arthur leaves the tent, standing on its edge where Dutch once stood, clearing his throat so his unused voice doesn’t crack. Not many are sleeping, despite how many people are laying down. He scans the camp, tousled and sullen and half dead, soul sucked right out of everyone, and even the moonlight can’t pierce the dark clouds hanging above them. Their sadness stinks, Arthur is surprised it hadn’t attracted vultures.

“Everyone,” Arthur calls, and several heads turn to him, some more surprised than the others. He hadn’t spoken since that night, only muttered thank you’s to Charles every once in a while, and whispered to himself as he hunched over Dutch’s map to find a good, safe place for them to settle until they pick themselves up again, “can you come here for a moment?”

They listen to him, herding around him, looking with parts of relief and expectation, and parts of curiosity and weariness. Arthur can feel their gazes heavy on him, he was never one for public speaking, he’s a bumbling fool most of the time, but there’s no time for shyness or miswording.

He glances at his feet for a second, before pulling a deep breath. With no speech, like Dutch would often have, Arthur resorts to straightforwardness, “we need to move, we can’t stay here anymore,” he says, his voice foreign to him, too gruff and low and emotionless, “we’re moving north, away from the Grey’s, and the Braithwaites, and any goddamn Pinkerton who might still be on our tail—” he explains despite his suspicion that the Pinkertons will leave them alone now, _They want you, Dutch_ , he’d once told, and that was true, and instead of Dutch only, they got Hosea too. And so, they were winners, victorious in their hunt.

“Where?” John asks, and Arthur pulls in a deep breath, _where_ had been the question plaguing Arthur since the day he laid eyes on the map. _Where_ kept him up at night. _Where_ , he didn’t know, but he had a sort of idea, and the people need any hope right not, Arthur’s uncertainty didn’t leave room for it.

So, with all the confidence he can muster—a miniscule amount really—Arthur answers, “Grizzlies”

It’s a mountain area, untouched mostly, he knows there’s the Native reservation there, the few instances where he’d rode around on Elk hunting trips, he’d gazed down on the reservation and left it unbothered. And he still plans to continue so, the Natives don’t need any more bother, by what the newspaper tells him anyway. There’s a very pretty mountain, with run down shacks up there, where he found a woman dead before her lover could come back from war—or so he thinks.

He'd cleared the shacks, discarded the body too, when he first stumbled on it. It proves helpful now, since all they’ll need to do is swipe the dust and settle their own stuff, the mountain top has three shacks if he remembers correctly, and a great view of the plains ahead of them. Enough space for them, enough distance too.

“Miss Grimshaw,” Arthur says, voice quieter now, “please start packing up, everyone, get your horses up and ready, we’ll leave as soon as we can, I’ll head out to check the place I have in mind—if it’s still free,” he pauses, looking behind him, where the map lays on the table, rough circles around the area of the mountain, his scribbled notes beside it, “Charles,” he calls, “a moment?”

The crowd slowly scatters, announcement over as Charles slowly walks up to Arthur, John stares at him for a moment before heading to groom Old Boy, get him saddled up for the first time in near a month.

“Arthur?” Charles starts softly, voice low and sweeping over Arthur like a strange balm.

“Charles,” Arthur starts, “I need you to lead them up the trail,” he says “you know the roads—”

“I do,” Charles confirms, and Arthur nods, and for a second, Arthur could only look back to the map, eyes on the graphite angrily circling the mountain name, “how are you?”

Arthur blinks, staring up at Charles, and for the first time in who knows how long, Arthur’s face breaks out into an expression. “Me?”

“Yeah,” Charles looks at him in puzzlement.

“You’re the one I should be asking,” Arthur says, “you’ve been running yourself to the ground on our behalf—”

“I didn’t lose my family,” Charles interjects softly, and Arthur’s words die on his lips, bitterness replacing them, climbing up the back of his throat, “I liked Dutch and Hosea, they were…I don’t know what they were to me, but whatever they meant to me would never compare to…how much you loved them”

“I-“ Arthur hesitates, _I’m fine_ , he’s tempted to say, but Charles’ eyes are steady on him and daring him to even try to, “I need to get them out,” he says instead, and though it’s not what Charles asked, Charles nods at him with understanding, intelligent eyes. _Always reliable_ , Dutch had once described Charles. Arthur can’t help but agree.

Charles doesn’t leave, still, and Arthur turns to sit on Dutch’s bed, “you haven’t eaten all day”

“I’m not hungry,” Arthur sighs.

“You need to be strong if you expect to lead them,” Charles coaxed, stepping closer to Arthur, until he could reach down and place a warm hand on his shoulder, “they need you to be their strongest”

“I ain’t too sure I can do that,” Arthur mutters, rubbing at his eyes, “I don’t know how…I ain’t no leader, Charles, I can barely form a sentence, never mind give orders out,” he explains, words easily spilling out. It’s always been that way with Charles, it seems, the man has an aura to him. A gentle soul with calmness surrounding it, prompting you to trust, “I ain’t Dutch, and I ain’t Hosea neither,” he sighs again, dropping his head into his hands.

“You don’t have to be,” Charles mused, “they don’t need Dutch or Hosea, they need you, Arthur Morgan,” he continues, hand slowly waning down till they’re at the middle of Arthur’s back, right between his shoulder blades, where the muscle is tense.

“I don’t know if I can be that either, anymore,” Arthur whispers.

Charles' knuckles kneed into his muscle, forcing him to relax.

“You can,” Charles insists, “I believe in you”

-

By mid-morning, Arthur was already sitting atop the mountain, looking down to the rocky below. The caravan should arrive at any time; faithfully lead by Charles.

For now, he sits alone, his mare beside him as they gaze together at the wildlife moving breezily below. The world hadn’t paused, for even a second to account for what’s happening in Arthur’s life. He hadn’t expected it to, but it still set a certain perspective in him, makes his chest feel small and lungs too big. Usually, at least, today he feels almost at ease. The bright scenery, the colored fields in the distance, the forest below changing colors as fall settles in easily.

It all makes him think of Hosea, not too far back, and that large bear they hunted—failed to until Arthur set out on his own and brought it down—and the pleasant few days they spent together. The easy banter that flowed between them, Hosea smiling for once, forgetting the weight of everything waiting back for them at camp.

Like the good old days, some ten years ago, when Arthur was younger, when the gang was smaller. Javier being their newest addition, a scrawny teenager that gave John a run for his money. Ten or so years ago Arthur found himself on another mountain, far, far down south, in Texas, having also just lost two people. _History likes to repeat itself_ , Hosea always said so, _it so very rarely makes new cases_.

Arthur wishes he were here, that would’ve soothed the gaping wound in the gang, in Arthur heart. Hosea’s presence would’ve been a soul balm, he always had the words, always had the perfect amount of kindness and strictness to pull them out of their heads and back into working order.

He had done it with Arthur, when he near drowned himself in liquor and anger, having Isaac and Eliza’s murders as his only priority, and after he’d drained their blood, those long two months away from the gang hunting every single one down and giving them the same dose of pain they bestowed him, he came back empty and tired and ready to sleep for three long decades. Save for the fact that Hosea was there to pull him back, Arthur thinks he might have ended his road right there. Losing his son, losing his friend, losing the only family he’d had outside the gang, well, in short, it destroyed him. Burned him with anger long enough for him to avenge them and left him in his own ashes.

Maybe that’s why he can’t find it in himself to do anything, the emptiness that plagued him before had returned, and most nights he barely manages to convince himself to get up, to stop laying in his bed sleeplessly and stop ignoring life and everyone’s needs.

He heard snippets of Javier and Bill’s wishes of death, of pursuing Milton and Ross and bringing it down on their heads, he’d seen the glint in John’s eyes, more often drunk than not, when he spoke about revenge. Seen Karen and Grimshaw and Sean and Lenny all agree, seen them look at him for a green light.

One that he won’t ever give.

Their disappointment is clear every time he passes by them, every time he sits by the campfire and they open up the conversation, only for Arthur to leave again, wordlessly. Revenge will get them nowhere. _A fool’s game_ , Hosea taught him.

And it’s Hosea’s teachings that keep him sane, just barely. _Death is permanent, grief is temporary_ , he’d told him, that faithful night Arthur sat tearfully on a mountain cliff, ready to let gravity take him and his sins and all he is. _Grief is temporary_ has been stuck in his head for days now. Arthur looks down past his feet, and if he closes his eyes and focuses, he can feel Hosea’s arm around him, can hear him coax the tears out of Arthur’s eyes. If Arthur ignores Ghalia’s snorts behind him, and the soft breeze of fall, if he imagined himself in Texas, with the warm sun soaking him; he can almost see Hosea beside him.

The ache in his chest is near physical, and he brings up a hand almost to rub it away.

He blows a breath out, taking a stand again and turning to Ghalia. The mare stares at him, almost expectantly, he hadn’t indulged her much these past few weeks, and a stab of guilt hits the sore spot in his chest.

She easily crunches the peppermint he hands her, bumping her head against Arthur’s satchel for more.

“Don’t be greedy now,” Arthur coos, but he still hands her a second peppermint, she shakes her head at him, looking him straight in the eye as he moves past her, “it’s going to be alright, girl,” Arthur promises, “we’ll get through this, right?”

Ghalia blinks at him, and Arthur can’t help but sigh, leaning his forehead against hers.

The gang arrives just as his watch ticked one, unpacking provides them a welcome distraction, and despite everything Arthur tries to argue, Grimshaw sets up a shack for him, and him only. He doesn’t want it, feels too much like how Dutch would be treated, but he isn’t Dutch, and he can’t and doesn’t want to be. He didn’t want the large space for himself, he thinks, maybe he can give it to Sean or Lenny, or both, the space is big enough.

The girls got the biggest shack, on account of the fact that they’re six women, and jack of course. The last shack housed Charles, John, Bill, and Javier. That left only few out in the open, Micah, Strauss, Reverend, Lenny, Sean, Pearson, and Uncle. A good set up all around, especially since the weather won’t be too bothersome, if it comes to raining, Arthur can cram the rest into his shack.

With the evening bringing them all to the campfire, stew finally done and everyone seeking to rest for the rest of the day, Arthur sits at the edge of the circle, feeling far too tired to include himself in the dry conversations being passed around the campfire, still lacking humor or soul. Tilly only offers pleasantries about the new location, Sean muttering about the bears and the wolves. It rakes on Arthur’s nerves, somehow, he needs to fix this, somehow, he needs to heal them, breath life into them, bring back the hope.

How the fuck is he supposed to do that?

“They say the Pinkertons moved to Colorado,” John brings up, empty stew bowl at his heel, stick half whittled in his hands. Arthur snaps his attention to him, but John isn’t looking at him, or anyone, eyes trained on his knife sharpening at the wood, “Moved onto hunting other gangs terrorizing the Midwest, got paid enough from Cornwall for Dutch and Hosea’s heads”

“Good,” Arthur grunts, “that means they won’t bother us no more,” he says, voice gruff with a warning.

John has always been to defy him, though, brushed past the warning and glared daggers into Arthur, “so we’ll just let them go?”

“You want us to go after them?”

“We all do!” John sneered, looking around the campfire, and a spiral of anger twists in Arthur’s chest when everyone nodded in agreement.

“Well, we _won’t_ ,” Arthur sneers right back.

John’s eyes darken, stepping towards Arthur, just the same way he did as a teenager and about to drag Arthur by the neck into a fight. But they haven’t fought like that in years, not since John left, and he isn’t in the mood to spare John Marston from a beating, so he steps towards him to cut him off, grabbing his arm. John glares at him, trying to tug his arm out of his grip, but he can’t, not with how adamant Arthur was about keeping him in place.

“Don’t be stupid,” Arthur hisses, “you go after them, you kill yourself, you kill whoever follows you”

“Dutch wou-“

“Dutch ain’t here no more!” Arthur shouts, pushing John back, pointing an accusing finger at him. John stares at him with surprise for a quick second, before his expression quickly falls to anger again, “Dutch died because he didn’t know when to stop-“

“He died because the Pinkertons jumped him” John spits back, and Arthur’s shoulder tense. Staring at John with so much poison that he feels like a viper about to strike, and John looks much the same, sneering at Arthur like an angry wolf—maybe his nickname _had_ some truth—fists curled by his sides.

As quickly as the anger surfaced, Arthur feels it seep out of him as a breeze blows by, his shoulders are still tense, head nearly buried between them, but his eyes are cold and so are his words, “We won’t go after them,” He states simply, “revenge is a fool’s game, all it’ll do is get more folk dead and break us apart.”

“Dutch woulda went after them if it were you,” John insisted, stepping closer, “he wouldn’t stand for those _bastards_ to get away with it”

“Well, good thing I’m not Dutch, then,” Arthur replies coldly, and John blinks at him in bewilderment. Arthur looks away, instead turning to look at the rest of the gang, all staring at him with shock, “any one of you wanna go out there, get themselves killed, give us more heartbreak, make us weaker? It’s your choice, I ain’t got the power to stop you, but don’t expect Dutch ‘n Hosea to spring outta the dirt and give ya a goddamn hug!” Arthur snaps, “You want revenge, it ain’t gonna bring ‘em back, it ain’t gonna do us no good, all it’ll do is bring back the goddamn law on us, and more people’ll die for no good _fucking_ reason!”

“It’s a damn good point,” Charles says, breaking the deathly silence that fell over them, “we’re not nearly strong or spirited enough to go after an entire army of lawmen”

“Then what are we doing?” Javier asks, “what’s there left for us to do? Dutch always had a plan.”

“I know,” Arthur sighs, crossing his arms, looking at the now dark sky as he gets his thoughts straight, “we do what we always set out to do,” he says, “we get enough money, and we buy ourselves a piece of land and _live_ goddamnit, we survived for long enough” Arthur turns to John again, who’s glare had been burning at the side of his head “ _That’s_ what Dutch ‘n Hosea woulda wanted”


	2. Chapter 2

The camp feels even more stilted now, a direct payback to Arthur’s resistance to John’s ideas. Still, he doesn’t address it, they’ll get over it, over time, their anger is fueled by grief; eventually it’ll wear off.

At least, he hopes.

For now, Sadie and Charles seem to be the ones keen on approaching him, Kieran skitters around him even more. The boy seems to make himself scarcer these past few weeks, maybe in fear that the gang would pick on him. He would feel bad if he wasn’t too busy drowning in confusion.

The next step is taunting him, really, Arthur finds himself staring at empty paper trying to write down any singular idea they can pursue.

They need money, the gang savings will only get them so far, they have around four thousand saved up. If they do plan on running north, maybe towards Canada and start a new life there, those funds will be swallowed up maybe three quarters of the way there. Stocking up on food, medicine and weapons will be costly on its own, buying train tickets and carriages will break their backs.

And even if the money does get them there, they’ll be on low funds with no where to go.

Arthur needs to keep their crimes on the low, resort back to petty ones. No more big explosions, no more rustling huge Businessmen that will come around and bash their skulls in.

He shakes his head, sighing to himself. One positive thing that his move to the shed brought, was the fact that he can pace around himself and no one would give him a second glance.

He hung up the map on the wall, so he can stare at it and his neck wouldn’t get stiff. The bed room remains uncharacteristically undecorated, not like Arthur had decorated much before, but he usually set up familial mementoes so he can feel like his lost loved ones are beside him. At least when he sleeps.

But it’s a tad too emotional for now, every picture he has is buried somewhere deep in his clothes chest, and he doesn’t have the energy or willpower to go dig them up.

For now, he grabs his journal again, turns an empty paper and holds his pencil steady.

What’s the plan?

Main goal: get the hell out

Gang Funds: 3,460

Personal funds: 200

Destination: away.

Arthur pauses, Canada he thinks, but also where in Canada.

Destination: away Canada,

Quebec is the only state he knows the name of, he didn’t study up on Canada in his free time. He should probably buy a map.

Arthur rubs his temples, Saint Denis probably sells them, but that’s a day and a half’s journey, maybe a day if he rode fast enough. If he sets off now—Arthur checks his watch, and bites back another sigh—he won’t make it on time, and would have to wait till morning for the stores to open.

Then he’ll set off at night, and by the time he hopefully arrives, the morning would have come and the stores would be open. Sounds good enough, he’s been itching to get out of camp, anyway, John and Bill’s angry glares can only irk him so long before something pops in his head and he decides to deck them.

Now all he needs to do is burn the day light.

Tempted to sleep it away, Arthur instead turns from the cabin and heads to do some chores. Might as well, since no one around is doing it, and Charles shouldn’t bare all the weight.

Sadie too, bless her and Charles, she’d been going out bounty hunting and O’driscoll killing on their behalf. And at least Kieran’s been keeping busy with the horses, they all look healthy and clean. Ought to give that boy credit, someday, Ghalia’s coat never shone so brightly before. Maybe Arthur should ask him for some tips.

But now is not the time, Arthur pulls in a breath as he grabs the axe, shaking off the lingering stares that are thrown towards him and sets up a block of wood.

When the blade hits the stump, Arthur nearly jumps out of his skin, and for some ungodly reason Hosea’s scream fills his ears. He stills, bent over himself like he’d been shot in the gut, and he might as well have been with the pain right under his chest, near his heart. Hosea’s dead eyes stare up at him, like his corpse is still right there, and he has to sit down so he doesn’t pass out.

He’s dead and he’s buried, he’s gone now and so is Dutch. He blinks, then blinks again when his vision got blurrier, chest heaving at the memory. Strange, his fits of sleep gave him blanks nowadays, ought to have nightmares when he was awake now. He never noticed how an axe sounds so close to the butt of a rifle, hitting hard against flesh and bones.

Arthur shakes his head again, brings the palms of his hands to his eyes, then holds in a breath. They’re gone, he reminds himself. It takes just a few breaths, and the realization he’s in the middle of camp, to get him to open his eyes and stand up shakily.

Just like that, Arthur finds himself back in the cabin. He can help out tomorrow, and extend his apologies to Charles and Sadie.

When night does eventually roll by, Arthur sets out to tack and saddle Ghalia, who greets him with a snort and neigh. He doesn’t bother giving a warning or a farewell, just saddled up and turned to start the journey down the hill and down to Saint Denis.

His nerves remain frayed, Hosea’s voice haunting him, Dutch’s last gurgle, and he doesn’t remember quite right if it happened or not, but he sees Dutch behind his eyelids, looking at him almost begging. They should’ve never went on that trip, it was stupid, Arthur should’ve never agreed. Maybe if he’d stalled long enough, maybe if he’d had just the tiniest bit of foresight.

Maybe this is all his fault, Hosea and Dutch brought him out because he was upset, wound up tight and stressed like a pig in a slaughterhouse. Maybe if he had hidden it better, shrugged off their worry as he did so many times before. But no he had to be selfish, he had to agree.

Might as well have pulled the trigger himself.

He shakes his head, leans down to bust himself whispering to Ghalia. He’d bought her on that hunting trip with Hosea, cost him most of his money and he didn’t have much to buy food with after that. But she might as well be his best purchase, as she pushes her head against Arthur’s palm when he went to stroke her mane.

If he lost her… he might as well burn the pictures too.

Early morning breaks just as a yawn breaks through Arthur’s jaw, has him stretch and wonder how long he’d been stuck inside his own head while he lead Ghalia through the familiar roads down to the smoke filled city.

Finding a map was surprisingly difficult, the first few stores he visited— _the general store and the fence_ —only had ones of the USA, he had taken rounds around the city, bumping into an off fella who picked him off the street with a shout. Some professor or other, Arthur brushed him off when he started rambling about moonshine. Last thing he wants is to disturb the Gray’s and Braithwaites again.

A scowled seemed to be enough to put the man out of his mood, had him skittering away like a startled mouse as Arthur lead his mare away, to the outskirts of the city.

He was lost on where to find a map, something he thought would be readily available but since when did life hand him things?

Until he stumbled upon a… flamboyant feller. Some Algeron Wasp, Arthur thinks, he was too busy dumbly eyeing the strange hats littering the shelves to pay attention.

“And what may I interest you in?” Wasp asks, and Arthur snaps his eyes away from the… tall hat he’d been staring at. Well, tall and taxidermied. Arthur looks at the lizard perched atop it one last time before turning to the downright funny fella.

“Uhm… I was looking for a map, to buy… of…Canada… can you point me to… a store?” Arthur stammer, eyes seemingly finding something stranger than the last every time he glances at any direction.

“Ah! A map, well it’s not for sale, but I do have one, I think. I don’t think they sell these here. Maybe try the Gunsmith, he sells much more than just guns, a map may be his most innocent product!” Wasp doesn’t stay still as he speaks, Arthur notices, the man is on a constant move. Adjusting hats, checking his watch, straightening the lapels of his jackets.

Gives Arthur a slight headache, tracking all his strange mannerisms. Paired with the odd, sometimes creepy hats staring at him from every direction.

Arthur doesn’t have nearly enough patience to stick around.

“Thanks partner,” he mumbles as he stomps away, but not before softening the blow of his short temper with a polite tilt of his hat.

And despite him nearly losing hope, not trusting a word out of Wasp’s mouth, he does visit the gunsmith.

And… even more surprisingly he _does_ find a map. It’s the owner’s personal map, that he sells for maybe twice the price of a normal one, but Arthur is tired, and his back started to feel the effects of the long ride. He counts this a success no matter how light his wallet feels as he feeds Ghalia a melted peppermint before mounting up and starting his journey back.

It feels almost like a betrayal, Arthur’s gut twisting at the thought of going back to the gang. But it’s a truth he swallows and chases with his own scolding. He can’t leave now, he’s the reason they’re lost. If he hadn’t sulked, if he didn’t let everything get to his head and pull him into a black mood, Hosea wouldn’t have noticed. Wouldn’t have worried. Wouldn’t have wanted to help.

 _Wouldn’t have died_.

He nearly growls to himself, adjusting his position in his saddle when he realized his thighs were numb now.

Arthur sighs as he pulls on Ghalia’s reigns, pulls her towards the thin forests of Lemoyne. They’re not much of a forest at all, more like a gathering of trees. But it’ll do good enough. Especially now that the Pinkertons seemingly laid off.

 _For now,_ a wicked voice whispers to him. Surely they’ll come after them too. Maybe not them per se, just the ones with bounty and whoever falls victim to the cross fire.

Arthur’s existence alone puts the gang under scrutiny, his bounty by far surpassing everyone else’s ( _who’s alive_ , the voice whispers again).

Maybe if _he_ had died, then the gang would be free. No one would go for John, or Javier or Bill, Charles and Sadie and the rest don’t even have bounties. Most of the bounties are already old and forgotten, save for _Arthur’s_.

They seem to be working well without him, maybe they don’t even _want_ him. John seems more hell bent on giving out ideas, for the first time in his life. Sure, they ain’t good ideas but he’s outspoken, now that the shadow of Dutch’s praise will forever be missing. The boy will go as feral and loudmouthed as he wants.

Maybe he should leave it up to John. Charles and Sadie are there, Grimshaw too. The gang is mostly alive, save for the Callender’s and Jenny. With John’s enthusiasm for action, and Charles’ quiet wisdom, they’d make it.

Arthur stares at Ghalia’s mane for a long minute.

Blinks to himself, before cracking into a bitter laugh.

John as a leader, what a _joke_.

He spurs Ghalia forward as he flip flops the idea in his head. John Marston, the boy who ran as soon as he was handed a baby, _his_ baby. The man who disowned his own son. That John Marston.

John Marston, the boy who bit when he was angry, and cried when he was frustrated. The boy who didn’t know, and still doesn’t know, how to handle himself alone. Carrying the weight of a broken hearted gang. John Marston, his pain in the ass little brother, handed a slide far bigger than he can stomach.

Now _that’d_ be cruel from Arthur.

And Charles….

Arthur pulls himself away from thinking. No, he won’t stop fighting just yet. Not until they’re safe again, far away, where the sound of Hosea’s skull caving doesn’t ring in his ear.

-

Camp is mostly asleep when he finally returns. Despite it being nearly seven am, Arthur doesn’t bother remarking their low energy, he has no right to judge them when the first thing he does is throw himself into his cabin and onto his bed. Not bothering to do much else than toe his boots off, closing his eyes and burying his face into his pillow as he wills the pain, physical and emotional, to leave him.


End file.
